Tom cocked his head, the better to hear.
And the dull voice sang,
“I’ve give my heart to Jesus, so Jesus take me home.
I’ve give my soul to Jesus, so Jesus is my home.” The song trailed off to a murmur, and then stopped.
Tom hurried down from the embankment, toward the song.
After a while he stopped and listened again.
And the voice was close this time, the same slow, tuneless singing, “Oh, the night that Maggie died, she called me to her side, an’ give to me them ol’ red flannel drawers that Maggie wore. They was baggy at the knees——”
Tom moved cautiously forward.
He saw the black form sitting on the ground, and he stole near and sat down.
Uncle John tilted the pint and the liquor gurgled out of the neck of the bottle.
Tom said quietly,
“Hey, wait!
Where do I come in?”
Uncle John turned his head.
“Who you?”
“You forgot me awready?
You had four drinks to my one.”
“No, Tom.
Don’ try fool me.
I’m all alone here.
You ain’t been here.”
“Well, I’m sure here now.
How ’bout givin’ me a snort?”
Uncle John raised the pint again and the whisky gurgled. He shook the bottle.
It was empty.
“No more,” he said. “Wanta die so bad.
Wanta die awful.
Die a little bit. Got to. Like sleepin’. Die a little bit.
So tar’d.
Tar’d.
Maybe—don’ wake up no more.” His voice crooned off. “Gonna wear a crown—a golden crown.”
Tom said,
“Listen here to me, Uncle John.
We’re gonna move on.
You come along, an’ you can go right to sleep up on the load.”
John shook his head.
“No.
Go on.
Ain’t goin’.
Gonna res’ here.
No good goin’ back.
No good to nobody—jus’ a-draggin’ my sins like dirty drawers ’mongst nice folks.
No.
Ain’t goin’.”
“Come on.
We can’t go ’less you go.”
“Go ri’ ’long.
I ain’t no good.
I ain’t no good.
Jus’ a-draggin’ my sins, a-dirtyin’ ever’body.”